


The FBI's Least Wanted

by mistakeshavebeenmade



Series: I Want To Believe [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (most of those are minor characters. spot the Javert!), Gen, Trans Character, x files au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-05-18 13:50:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5930698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistakeshavebeenmade/pseuds/mistakeshavebeenmade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Fox Enjolras: a believer in the paranormal, the inexplicable, and the just plain weird.<br/>Agent Dana Grantaire: a skeptic in all fields.<br/>Together, they fight crime.</p><p>(Based heavily on the X Files Season 1, Episode 1.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Are you familiar with an agent named Fox Enjolras?”

Grantaire had been teaching at the Academy, had, in fact, been in the middle of a lecture, in the middle of a  _ sentence _ when he was handed the note.

_ “Your attendance is required in Washington at 1600 hrs. sharp.” _

Needless to say, he wasn’t overly thrilled that he’d been hauled out of class, and even less so when he’d found out that it was apparently so that he could play twenty questions about some agent he’d barely heard of.

“Spooky Enjolras? I’ve heard of him. He has a...reputation. I hear he’s the best analyst in the Violent Crimes division, though.” The acknowledgement was the least of what he'd heard. Agent Enjolras had a formidable reputation as a profiler. But he wasn't going to give his cards away until he knew what was going on.

“Yes, a very distinguished agent. Lately, though, he has a more bizarre obsession. What do you know about the X Files?”

Grantaire frowned. “Not much,” he had to admit.

The thin man, smoking in the back of the Division Chief’s office, snorted. “The X Files. Nothing but a grab bag of outrageous ghost stories.”

“ _ Thank  _ you,” Division Chief Myriel said, exasperation clear in his voice. Turning back to Grantaire, he continued “The X Files, are cases that involve inexplicable phenomena. Unsolvable cases. And they’re Agent Enjolras’ personal pet project. He’s been investigating them for years now, and submitting reports, each one more far-fetched than the last.”

Grantaire rubbed one hand through his hair. He hated the kind of beating around the bush that anybody in the Bureau that outranked him seemed to speak in out of force of habit. “Sir, why are you explaining this to me?”

“Agent Enjolras and the X Files are your new assignment.” Grantaire blinks, slowly, but before he could ask what the  _ hell  _ Chief Myriel was talking about, he was continuing “You will work cases with him, and submit regular reports with your detailed scientific opinion of his conclusions.”

"Should your reports cast doubt on the legitimacy of the X-files...well, so be it. I'm sure Agent Enjolras’  _ prodigious _ talents will find utility elsewhere, and you'll resume your Academy career precisely where you left off.” The thin, smoking man smiled.

Grantaire left the meeting with his head spinning. The letter of his new assignment was fairly straightforward. Work with Enjolras, be an objective observer, decide if there was anything that could explain the weird-ass cases in the X Files. But the spirit…

Undermine Fox Enjolras. By any means necessary.

Grantaire hadn’t needed a drink this badly since the last time he’d thrown himself merrily off the sobriety wagon.

Instead of going for a drink, he headed for the basement.

Enjolras’ office was tucked away in the farthest, most dimly-lit corner of the basement they had. Grantaire couldn’t help smirking. If there was one thing that could be said for the FBI, it was that they didn’t sneak around behind your back if they didn’t like you. And they obviously didn’t like Agent Enjolras.

He knocked on the door, and was greeted with a peevish shout of “Sorry, nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted. Go away.”

Grantaire went in anyways.

The office was a disaster. Newspaper clippings, magazine articles, posters and other bits of paper were pinned to every free inch of wall and several square feet of the ceiling. Every flat surface had more papers, files, and books stacked on it, everything from chemistry textbooks to Star Trek novels. At the center of the chaos was a desk, and sitting behind the desk was a man.

No, not a man.  _ Man _ was too tame a word. Some kind of avenging angel, maybe, or a god. Not in the Christian sense, but one of the old gods, the good ones that walked around among the people. Grantaire hadn’t painted anything for years, not since he’d gotten his MCAT scores, but he could see the oil painting as clearly as if he had a canvas in front of him. Agent Enjolras as Nike, the goddess of victory, or as her sister Zelus, maybe. Zeal personified, barely contained inside a cheap suit, warm, dark skin and a sloppy bun that barely contained the riot of blonde curls on top of his head. Maybe it should be a statue, a real Greek statue complete with garish colors painted on.

“Who are you? And what do you want?” The voice, clipped and clearly impatient, called him back to his senses. Whether it was the Imp of the Perverse or just an ingrained response to being snapped at, Grantaire couldn’t help putting on his most shit-eating grin.

“Agent Dana Grantaire. I’m your new partner. Didn’t they tell you I was coming?”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, they hadn’t.

It took an irate phone call that got bumped from one superior officer to the next before making it to one Section Chief Valjean, Enjolras’ supervisor, before Enjolras would accept that Grantaire’s presence wasn’t some sort of elaborate prank. By the time Enjolras hung up, rubbing at his temples, Grantaire felt a little bad for not delivering the news a little more professionally. Only a little, but still.

When Enjolras finally looked up at Grantaire, giving him a piercing glare, Grantaire was positive that he was about to be treated to the same kind of blistering rhetoric that Enjolras had been pouring out through the phone a moment before.

Instead, Enjolras thrust his hand out abruptly. “Fox Enjolras. Our flight leaves tomorrow morning, 7 AM. Pack a bag.”

Grantaire shook the proffered hand, bemused. “Flight? Flight where?”

“We have a case.”

“Case? What case?”

Enjolras presses a button on an ancient projector, and where did he even  _ get  _ a projector? It looked about three seconds and a stern glare away from falling apart. Being out of favor with the Powers That Be apparently sucked even more than Grantaire had thought.

When Enjolras motioned for Grantaire to switch off the lights, he complied, and a grainy picture of a woman, lying on her stomach, came into view on the wall. It grew clearer when, after several tries, Enjolras pulled down an equally-ancient projector screen to cover the pictures on the wall.

“Female. Age 21. ME is completely stumped, because there’s no apparent cause of death. No apparent trauma at all. Except…” Enjolras flips to the next slide. “For these. You’re a medical doctor, Agent Grantaire. What’s your opinion?”

Grantaire takes a step closer to the projector. The next slide was a close-up of the woman’s back, focused on two raised red marks. “I’d need to look at them in person, but my best guess? I’d say it’s some kind of bite mark. Snake, maybe? Were there any traces of venom in her blood?”

Enjolras shook his head.

“Electrocution, then. A taser could cause marks like that.”

“Could,” Enjolras allowed. And  _ god _ , he looked like he was enjoying this. “But it didn’t.”

Grantaire spread his hands wide. “Enlighten me, then, oh font of wisdom. What caused those marks.”

“I don’t know. That’s why we’re going to Oregon.”

 

* * *

 

Grantaire sprawled on his stomach over two first class seats on the plane. Apparently absolutely nobody wanted to go to Bumfuck Nowhere, Oregon, in the middle of the rainiest time of the year. He was confident that he’d be paying for this luck with an eternity of no legroom and overbooked flights, but at that moment, he didn’t care. He was as comfortable as it was possible to get while hurtling through the air in a tin can, and he could read about the other two cases with weird marks that Enjolras had turned up in peace.

“Do you believe in aliens?”

Well. Relative peace, anyway. Grantaire propped himself up on one elbow and considered his new partner. Enjolras was giving him an intense, indecipherable stare. “What, do you mean in a ‘there are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio,’ kind of way, or in a ‘the little green men stole my gramma’ kind of way?”

Enjolras shrugged. “Either.” The intense look hadn’t gone away, and it was hard to do anything but take the question seriously when he was being asked this earnestly.

“I believe in science,” he said eventually. “And logically, according to science there’s no way the Earth is the only planet ever to have the capacity to sustain life.” Privately, he thanked Neil DeGrasse Tyson for that elegant phrasing. “So I guess yeah. I believe in aliens. But aliens that have the capacity to travel to Earth completely undetected, for the sole purpose of messing with humans?” He shook his head decisively. “Not a chance. It’s just not plausible, let alone likely.”

Enjolras smiled. It almost looked like he’d been expecting that answer. “This girl we’re flying out to investigate. She’s the fourth one in her graduating class to die, all under mysterious circumstances, none with any clearer cause of death than her. Clearly not a  _ plausible _ set of circumstances. Shouldn’t we consider an equally unlikely culprit?”

“Not when there’s a far more likely candidate,” Grantaire fired back. “Human error. MEs mess up, cops mess up, hell, whatever or whoever killed her might have messed up. You want plausible, that’s the most plausible explanation they’ve ever invented. We’re probably going to get there, tidy up the paperwork for the local yokels, and go right back to Washington.”

“You’re probably right,” Enjolras agreed amiably. Somehow, Grantaire didn’t buy it. “We touch down in the very plausible state of Oregon in an hour. Then we’ll see.”

The plane hit a spot of nasty turbulence as they started their descent. Grantaire tried not to take it as any kind of sign, and almost succeeded.

Once they made it to the rental car, and the fight over who was going to drive was resolved -- in Enjolras’ favor, mostly because he gave Grantaire a sort of “I will decapitate and eat the ears of everyone you have ever loved” look -- it was Grantaire’s turn to ask questions.

“So, oh darling partner mine, you left a little detail out when you were giving me the rundown of the case.” Being the passenger had its perks. It meant that he could jab at the files in his lap accusingly. “You didn’t mention that the FBI already investigated these cases. And found great, heaping piles of nothing.”

Enjolras snorted. “The FBI played on the beach and ate salmon steaks for a week. Then, they got called back, and these cases were dropped into a file and forgotten about until I found it in a box.”

“So what, are we adding the insult of government conspiracy to the injury of alien invasions now?”

“Benghazi. Watergate. Government cover-ups aren’t exactly unheard-of,” Enjolras pointed out. “Our illustrious and proud  _ superiors _ would occasionally rather we had just enough information that we believe what they want us to believe.” Even though his hands stayed on the wheel, Grantaire could hear Enjolras making air quotes around the word  _ superiors _ . He had to bite his tongue to keep from asking if Enjolras had ever believed that anyone was superior to him. He might be an antagonistic asshole, but he was an antagonistic asshole who occasionally knew where to draw the line, if only to keep himself from getting pushed out of a moving car.

While he was struggling with his better judgement, Enjolras had continued speaking. “So considering the evidence already before us that  _ something  _ isn’t right, you’ll forgive me, I’m sure, if I don’t trust that everything here is on the up-and-up.”

“Oh, I’ll forgive you,” Grantaire, whose tongue managed to escape his control, said glibly. “Doesn’t mean I agree with you, but forgiving you for being wrong is what partners do.”

Enjolras’ frosty silence went on for several miles.

Eventually, Grantaire, growing uncomfortable with the weight of Enjolras’ disapproving sideways glances, cleared his throat. “There was something else in those reports that didn’t sound right.” When Enjolras didn’t say anything, he went on. “The autopsies. The same ME did them all, except for the last one. And the last one is the only one that mentions these unidentified marks.”

Enjolras maintained his silence for a few more seconds before admitting “Good observation.”

“Better than you expected?” Grantaire couldn’t have kept the self-deprecation out of his voice if he’d tried, so he didn’t bother.

Enjolras didn’t take his eyes off the road, but he did smile slightly. “I’ll let you know when we get past the easy part.”

In spite of himself, Grantaire snorted. “So. Do you suspect the original medical examiner? Doctor...” He flipped through the files in his lap. “Nemman, in the parlor, with the venomous cobra?”

“I suspect everyone,” Enjolras said calmly. “But I’d like to take a look at those other bodies. I’ve arranged to have the last victim’s body exhumed. Should still be intact enough that we can see what’s there to see.”

Before Grantaire could make some kind of jab about rotting corpses and his pristine new partner, the radio turned itself on with a cacophony of noise. The stations flipped past rapidly, in open defiance of Grantaire’s attempts to try to shut the thing off. The noise of one station blurred into the next, until it was a deafening shriek that died abruptly when Enjolras slammed on the breaks and switched off the engine.

Enjolras was running for the trunk a second later, and watching his gangling sprint did a little to help Grantaire dispel notions of his godhood. Grantaire followed him out of the car at a more sedate pace. “The  _ hell  _ was that?” It was a good thing he was expressing frustration with technology and fear of something going seriously wrong with their ride in the middle of nowhere more than he was expecting an explanation, because Enjolras didn’t offer one. He was too busy rummaging in the trunk, until he triumphantly brandished a can of hot pink spray paint and set off gangling towards the spot where the radio had started to malfunction. He drew a massive X on the pavement, then proceeded back towards Grantaire and the car at a more sedate pace.

“So. Do you want to fill me in on what that was all about?” Grantaire leaned against the car, maintaining an air of casual nonchalance that hid his very real concern that they were about to be stranded.

Enjolras leaned in through the open driver’s door, and started the car. The radio stayed blessedly silent as the engine roared to life. “Oh. It was probably nothing.”


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire was still inwardly rolling his eyes at ‘probably nothing’ when they arrived at the cemetery. Did Enjolras think he was gullible, or just completely oblivious? Either way, he wasn’t going to call Enjolras on it in front of the crane crew that was waiting for them. So he put on his best work face, and off he went.

A balding man bustled up to them as they approached the open grave. “Mr. Enjolras, John Truitt, from the County Coroner’s office,” he said, sticking a hand out, which Enjolras shook gravely.

“You’re the one I spoke to on the phone, yes? This is my associate, Agent Grantaire.” He gestured towards Grantaire, who shook Truitt’s hand with a great deal more warmth.

“So, Mr. Truitt, how soon can we get this underway?”

“Soon as you like,” Truitt said. “We’re all ready to go here.”

“Start it up,” Enjolras ordered.

“Please,” Grantaire added, smiling pleasantly at Enjolras when he shot him a startled look.

Truitt waved at the crane crew, and the machine whirred to life. Dimly, over the sound of the coffin being lifted out of the grave, Grantaire heard...shouting?

“Excuse me? Excuse me!” Definitely shouting. Grantaire turned toward the road at almost the same time as Enjolras, in time to see a man herding a young woman back towards their car, before starting up the hill towards them.

“Who do you people think you are? You think you can just come up here and do what you damn well please?”

Grantaire stepped in before Enjolras could say anything, since from the look on his face Enjolras was about to tell him exactly who he thought he was. “Sorry, who are you?”

“I’m Doctor Nemman. County Medical Examiner.”

“Weren’t you told we were coming?” Grantaire glanced at Enjolras, who shook his head minutely.

“No, we’ve...I’ve been out of town.”

“Well, that explains a few things,” Grantaire muttered. In a normal tone, he continued “So you didn’t perform the latest autopsy. Have you seen Doctor Truitt’s findings?”

“No, and I don’t like what you’re insinuating.” Apparently Grantaire hadn’t been sneaky enough about connecting the dots. “What are you saying, that I missed something in those other kids’ exams?”

“We’re not saying anything,” Grantaire said placatingly. “We’d just like to take a look for ourselves.” He started to turn back towards the crane, but a strong grip on his arm forced him back around.

“Now just you wait a minute, see, because I think you are saying something. And if you’re making some kind of accusation, you’d better be able to back it up.”

If looks could kill, Grantaire was pretty sure Enjolras would be on trial for murder in a couple weeks. Thankfully, the medical examiner was saved from an untimely death by the young woman. “Daddy, please. Let’s just go home, please.”

With one last dirty look for the both of them, Nemman turned back towards his car.

“Now there’s a man who needed a longer vacation,” Grantaire joked, rubbing his arm. The doctor’d had a strong grip. But Enjolras wasn’t listening to his jokes. He was already striding back to the grave site, and Grantaire hurried to catch up with him. When he reached Enjolras’ side, he turned towards him.

“Ray Soames, our third victim,” he said, waving towards the coffin, which was almost to the surface.

The name sounded familiar, and Grantaire closed his eyes for a moment, thinking back through the information in the files he’d read on the flight. “He...confessed to the first two murders, didn’t he? Begged to be locked up for them, but he couldn’t give them anything on how or why he did it.”

“Did you happen to notice the cause of death?”

“Exposure. He was hospitalized, he escaped and ran out into the woods,” Grantaire offered.

Enjolras scoffed. “Exposure. On a warm night in July. How does a healthy kid die of exposure on a nice summer night?”

Grantaire wasn’t sure how he was going to answer that question, but while he was struggling to come up with an answer, the coffin reached the surface. As the crane crew was pulling it in safely to the ground, there was a sudden  _ snap _ . A strap, Grantaire realized belatedly as Enjolras hauled him out of the way of the suddenly-rolling coffin, then down the hill after it.

The coffin careened wildly into a headstone, with Enjolras in hot pursuit and Grantaire being towed along in his wake. When it hit, it burst open.

For a moment, there was silence in the cemetery as Enjolras and Grantaire stared at the body inside the coffin. Then, Enjolras turned towards Truitt, and snapped “Get this sealed up. Nobody sees it, nobody touches it, until we get it to the lab.”

 

* * *

 

“Subject is...one hundred fifty six centimeters in length. Weight...twenty three kilograms. Corpse is extremely desiccated, clearly in the advanced stages of decomposition.” Grantaire shifted to the other side of the body laying on the immaculate stainless steel table in front of him. “Note the large ocular cavities, the oblate cranium...subject clearly isn’t human. Would you stop flashing that thing in my eyes?” He turned off his recorder and glared at Enjolras, who had the grace to look a little sheepish as he lowered the camera.

“It’s not human,” Enjolras agreed. “So, in your medical opinion, what is it?”

Grantaire considered the corpse again. “It’s definitely mammalian. My guess? Chimp. Or one of the smaller apes, like an orangutan.”

“Yes, because I often find that the city cemetery, the grave of a murder victim, is the place to find dead monkeys,” Enjolras deadpanned.

“I’ve already ordered tissue samples and blood toxicology,” Grantaire replied, “so I guess we’ll find out. What’s your theory then, that’s so much more believable than mine?” Enjolras shrugged. “No, really, what? Do you honestly think this is some kind of extraterrestrial? It’s a sick joke, Enjolras, and I’m not laughing.”

Enjolras shook his head. “Neither am I, Grantaire. I want answers to this just as badly as you do.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to clean up as much of the ableist stuff from this episode as I could. This chapter does, however, still deal with institutionalization of mentally ill people, so please be aware if that's something that's likely to bother you. (If you're uncomfortable with that, please skip the middle part of this chapter.)

Grantaire sat cross-legged on his motel room bed, comfortably dressed in his binder and a pair of sweatpants, leafing through the data they’d collected from the corpse. He spoke absently to the digital recorder lying on his knee as he flipped from one x-ray to the next.

“X-ray analysis confirms that whatever this body is, it’s mammalian, but not human. Homologous to simian structures, possibly mutated.” Maybe they ought to be putting out an APB for the X Men. Somehow, he didn’t think Enjolras would find that notion as funny as he did, and he resolved to make the joke at the next possible opportunity.

“However,” he continued, “that doesn’t explain the metallic object found in the subject’s nasal cavity. A grey metallic implant, found…”

A knock on the door cut him off. “Who’s there?”

“Steven Spielberg,” came the voice from the other side of the door, dripping with sarcasm. “Who do you think?”

Grantaire didn’t think twice before going to let Enjolras in. He didn’t care if the other agent saw him in his binder -- it looked enough like a normal tank top. “Enjolras. What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

Enjolras was sporting the same sloppy bun he’d worn all day, but now with nondescript grey sweats in place of the Fed suit. “I can’t sleep. I’m going for a run, do you want to come?”

The idea of going for a run at...10 at night, he decided, after a brief glance at the clock...was so ludicrous that he grinned wryly. “Hard pass. I’m not much of one for running.”

“Suit yourself. Have you figured out what the metal in Ray Soames’ nose is yet?”

“Nope.” Grantaire shrugged. “And unlike you, I’m not going to lose a wink of sleep over it.”

As Enjolras turned and jogged away from the door, Grantaire turned back to the stack of x-rays on his bed with a sigh. It was going to be a long night.

 

* * *

 

The hospital was depressing. Hospitals were always depressing. There was a reason Grantaire had gone into the FBI, and it had a lot to do with how much he hated medical facilities, even though the practice of medicine itself fascinated him.

He shook himself out of his funk, and turned his attention back to the doctor they were following.

“Yes, Ray was a patient of mine,” she was saying, apparently in answer to something Enjolras had asked. “I oversaw his treatment for just over a year. He appeared to be suffering from some sort of post traumatic stress.”

“Is that something you have experience with?” Enjolras didn’t seem to mind taking charge of the questioning.

“Yes, I’ve treated several similar cases.”

“Ray Soames’ classmates.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“And are any of them still your patients?”

The doctor didn’t look like she wanted to answer. Grantaire though they were about to get a lecture about confidentiality and HIPPA laws, and he was idly wondering whether he could recite it right along with her, when Enjolras smiled.

It was a winning smile, a ‘you can trust me’ smile. Grantaire could feel his face warming, and he was suddenly grateful for his dusky complexion, because he was sure it was the only thing keeping him from visibly blushing.

It clearly had the same effect on the doctor, and she didn’t have Grantaire’s natural genetic advantage.

“Well. Ah. Yes, actually. I’m treating two patients right now. Billy Miles and Peggy O’Dell. Both of them are part of our residential psychiatric program.”

“They’re here? At this hospital?” Grantaire interjected.

“For nearly four years now,” the doctor confirmed.

“Can we talk to them?” Enjolras seemed just as enthusiastic about the prospect as Grantaire felt. Maybe now they could actually get some answers. But the doctor looked doubtful.

“You can. But you might find it difficult. Particularly in Billy’s case.”

She didn’t elaborate, but her reason became plain when they entered the ward.

“Billy’s experiencing something called a waking coma,” Grantaire said, flipping through the chart at the end of the bed, as Enjolras stared impassively at Miles’ blank face from his vantage point next to Peggy O’Dell. The young woman sat in a wheelchair, reading out loud, and hadn’t looked up since they arrived. “He has minimal brain activity, he’s in a persistent vegetative state, but he can still open his eyes, breathe, basic things to sustain life.”

“How?” The question was the only sign that Enjolras had heard him at all.

“Automobile accident. He and Ms. O’Dell both, from the looks of this.”

Enjolras turned toward Peggy O’Dell, and gave her the same winning smile he’d given her doctor. “Hi, Peggy. It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s not sand, it’s dark…” Peggy glanced up, then back at the book. “Billy wants me to read now.”

Enjolras sat lightly on the edge of Billy’s bed. “Does he like it? When you read to him, that is.”

“Yes. He likes having me close.”

It seemed as if Enjolras had things well in hand, so Grantaire drifted back to the entrance to the ward, and the doctor who was waiting for them. “I’d like to perform a medical exam on Peggy. Is that something she can consent to, in your opinion?”

Whatever the doctor was about to say was drowned out by the sound of something crashing to the ground.

“Peggy? Peggy!” The doctor sprinted across the room, a half step ahead of Grantaire.

Blood dripped from Peggy’s nose and onto the linoleum floor. She lay next to the toppled wheelchair, half-curled into a ball. As Grantaire got closer, he could hear her murmuring “Stop it. Stop…”

Grantaire wasn’t really surprised when the doctor looked up at them briefly and said “I think you two should go.”

He could hear her comforting Peggy as they left the ward.

 

* * *

“The girl, Peggy. She has the marks. I saw them when she fell.”

Enjolras waited until they were in the parking lot to say anything. Grantaire stopped abruptly. “The same marks as our murder victims.”

“Identical, as far as I could tell.”

“You don’t exactly sound surprised.”

“Really?” Enjolras’ face was unreadable.

“Really. And I’m getting a little tired of your crap, Enjolras. What’s going on here? What do you think you know about these marks?” 

“Why? So you can report it back to my  _ dear _ friends at the J. Edgar Hoover building?” Enjolras’ smile now was nothing like the one he’d given the nurse and the girl. It had a sharp edge to it, too much tooth and not enough of it reaching his eyes. “Do you really want to know what I think the truth is? Because I don’t think you do.”

“I want to know what happened here. I want the  _ truth _ .”

Enjolras shook his head. “You want the truth. Well. I think they were abducted.”

“By  _ who _ ?”

“By what,” Enjolras corrected.

“You can’t possibly believe that.” Grantaire was incredulous. All of this, all of these  _ real _ people being hurt, and...what. Aliens did it?

“If you have a better explanation, I’d be delighted to hear it.”

Grantaire waved his hands in the air. “Alright, it’s obvious that the girl is suffering from some kind of psychosis. I can even believe that those marks are somehow related to her condition, that it wasn’t organic. But to say they’ve been riding around in flying saucers? That’s just absurd, and you know it.”

“Unscientific, you mean.”

“Yes, dammit, that’s exactly what I mean. It’s not logical, it’s not rational. You want a solid theory?” He squared his shoulders. “The woods. Our four victims? All died in or near the woods. Our latest victim was in the woods, in her pajamas, ten miles from her house. How did she get there? What were all these kids doing in the woods?”


	4. Chapter 4

If he’d known that suggesting that the woods was the connection would end in them wandering around in the dark, damp woods after night had well and truly fallen, searching for clues with flashlights like Nancy Drew rejects, Grantaire would have kept his observations to himself. “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,” he quoted softly to himself after the third time he tripped on a root and nearly broke his neck. “I think Frost must’ve only ever gone hiking in the daytime.”

At least Enjolras had agreed to stop at the motel so they could change first. If he’d still been wearing his Fed suit, it would’ve been ruined by now. As it was, he was pretty sure he was going to have to replace his favorite jeans. He’d thoroughly lost track of where Enjolras was, but hopefully he was faring better than he was. Or worse, so that Grantaire could at least indulge in a fit of schadenfreude.

The beam of his flashlight bounced back and forth across the ground ahead of him as he walked. As it drifted, Grantaire caught sight of something that had him stopping in his tracks. There was something about the dirt that was...odd.

He had sample bags in his pocket, just in case. He pulled one out now, turned it inside-out, and was using it to scoop up a little of the strange earth when the ground beneath him started to rumble.

“Enjolras? That had better not be you playing some kind of trick to convince me to believe in aliens.” He didn’t think it would be like Enjolras, from everything he’d seen, but he’d been wrong about people before.

The shaking continued, and when he looked around, Grantaire could see a light coming through the trees. He drew his gun, just in case it  _ wasn’t _ Enjolras.

“Who’s there? Enjolras?”

A silhouette, gun in hand, stepped into the light, and Grantaire trained his gun on it.

“Federal agent. Drop your weapon.”

The figure stepped into the light. “Fed, huh? Well, I’m with the County Sheriff’s department, and you’re trespassing on private property here.”

“We’re conducting an investigation,” Grantaire retorted, and didn’t add  _ asshole _ , even though he wanted to. He thought he deserved some kind of medal for that when the man in question continued talking.

“Get in your car and leave. Both of you.” From the footsteps behind him, Grantaire guessed Enjolras had come to see what the ruckus was. Finally. “Or else I’ll arrest the both of you. I don’t care who you are, you can’t be here.”

“Sheriff, this is a crime scene.” Enjolras sounded like he was doing that smile again, but apparently it only worked on easy-going doctors, because the sheriff only gestured with the barrel of his shotgun.

“Did you hear what I said? You’re on private property without permission, and I’m betting you haven’t got a warrant either. Now I’m only going to say it one more time. Get in your car and leave, or leave in handcuffs. Your choice.”

Apparently, Enjolras’ choice was to leave. He stalked off without another word.

Grantaire didn’t holster his gun until the sheriff was out of sight.

He was a little shocked when, on the way back to the car, Enjolras suddenly rounded on him and demanded “What was he doing out here all by himself?”

“If I knew the answer to that,” Grantaire said, “you wouldn’t be looking at me like I swore at your Nanna. But it could have something to do with this.” He pulled the sample bag out of his pocket and tossed it at Enjolras. Who caught it, of course, because he was a perfect statue of a human being.

The rest of the walk back to the car passed in silence. Once they were seated inside the rental sedan, Enjolras flipped on the interior light and stared at the bag of dirt Grantaire had collected.

“What do you think it is?” Enjolras turned the sample bag over in his hands before handing it back to Grantaire.

“Hell if I know. Could be campfire ash? But whatever it was, it was all over the ground back there.” He shook his head. Enjolras seemed to be ignoring him completely, and playing with some compass app on his phone instead. But on the off-chance he was still listening, Grantaire continued. “I want to come back here in the daylight. Take more samples.”  Now Enjolras was checking the time. Grantaire could just barely read the display on his phone from his seat - 9:03. Then he glanced out the window. “Is there something actively wrong with you?”

“No, I’m just…”

A bright light and a roaring in Grantaire’s ears drowned out whatever else Enjolras had to say.

 

* * *

 

When the light faded, the car was dead.

Completely dead.

Enjolras tried the ignition five times in a row, with absolutely no result, while Grantaire rubbed dazedly at his eyes.

“The hell just happened?”

“We lost nine minutes.”

“We lost...what?”

“Nine minutes.” Enjolras pointed at his phone. “It was 9:03 when the light went off. Now? 9:13.” Before Grantaire could point out the obvious ridiculousness of that statement, Enjolras was bounding out of the car and down the road. Grantaire had no desire to join him, considering the rain that had started to pour down (and when, exactly, had that started, an analytical part of his mind wanted to know), but Enjolras was shouting something.

“I thought so! Look!”

Grantaire dragged himself out of the passenger seat with a groan. Enjolras was standing several feet back from the car, pointing to the X he’d spray painted on the pavement the day before.

“Time can’t just disappear, Enjolras. It’s a universal constant,” Grantaire shouted over the clamor of the rain.

“And you, of course, being the author of the rules of the universe, would know that?”

Enjolras was getting good at walking off before Grantaire could get a word in edgewise, he noted glumly.

 

* * *

 

At least the car had started. But Grantaire was wet, grouchy, and very much in need of beer, blankets, and bed. He wasn’t going to get the first one, but the second two, he figured he could manage.

On his way to the bathroom, he stopped to make a note on his voice recorder.

“Agent Enjolras is, in this agent’s professional opinion, an absolutely bone-headed asshole. Sorry, was that unprofessional? Agent Enjolras is insisting that his theory of time loss due to unexplained paranormal forces is correct. This agent is completely unable to find so much as a shred of evidence to support this claim.”

A flash of lightning threw the room into high contrast. As the thunder boomed, the lights went out.

“Fucking fantastic,” Grantaire muttered, going for his flashlight. “This case is just turning out to be a laugh a minute.”


	5. Chapter 5

By the time Enjolras reached his room, summoned by a series of frantic text messages, Grantaire was pacing erratically around the hotel room, not following any set pattern. As soon as he unlocked the door, he returned to pacing, only stopping when Enjolras, after a moment of silent observation, grabbed hold of his shoulder and asked “Grantaire, what’s wrong?”

He wasn't wearing his binder, just a tee shirt and the first dry pair of pants he’d been able to find, the ones that went with his Fed suit. The combination made it easy to grab Enjolras’ hand from his shoulder and, rucking up the back of his shirt, press it to the two lumps he’d found while he was getting ready to shower by flashlight.

“The hell are those?” Grantaire’s voice was demanding, and more than a little concerned.

Enjolras smiled. “Mosquito bites.”

“You’re sure?” Grantaire didn't buy it, not really. This was Spooky Enjolras telling him that his weird marks, the same as their victims had, the same as those kids in the hospital had, were nothing more than  _ mosquito bites,  _ and he was supposed to buy it?

“I have a few myself,” Enjolras confirmed, radiating calm. “FBI agents taste good to the local insects, apparently.”

Grantaire sat down on the bed abruptly.

“Are you alright?” A wrinkle of concern appeared in the center of Enjolras’ forehead.

Grantaire nodded.

“Do you want me to go?”

At Grantaire’s emphatic head shake, Enjolras sat hesitantly on the very edge of the chair next to the bed, posture rigid and uncomfortable-looking. “Alright.”

 

* * *

 

“I was twelve when it happened.”

Grantaire, who had sprawled out on his stomach on the bed at around the same point in their rambling conversation, spanning everything from hockey to Bigfoot as Grantaire let all his pent-up adrenaline out by narrating his stream of consciousness, that Enjolras had unbent enough to sit back in the chair and prop his feet up on the mattress, made what he hoped was an encouraging noise.

“My sister was eight. She just disappeared out of her bed one night. Just gone, vanished. No note, no phone calls, no evidence of anything.”

“You never found her.” It wasn’t a question. If Enjolras  _ had _ found her, he didn’t think he’d be here.

Enjolras shook his head. “No. And it tore the family apart. No one would talk about it. There were no facts to confirm, nothing to offer any hope.” When Grantaire made another encouraging grunt, he went on “I ran away to France for university. I came back, got recruited by the Bureau. Seems I had a ‘natural aptitude for applying behavioural models to criminal cases,’ or so I was told.”

Somehow, Grantaire didn’t doubt that that had been a direct quote. He didn’t have to encourage Enjolras to go on this time.

“My success allowed me a certain...freedom to pursue my own interests. And that's when I came across the X-Files.”

“By accident?” Somehow, Grantaire doubted Enjolras did  _ anything  _ by accident.

Enjolras seemed to ignore the question. “At first, it looked like a garbage dump for UFO sightings, alien abduction reports, the kind of stuff that most people laugh off as ridiculous, or as a prank. But I found it fascinating. I read all the cases I could get my hands on. Hundreds of them. And then everything I could find about paranormal phenomenon, about the occult and…”

When Enjolras trailed off and didn’t continue, Grantaire prompted “And?”

“And.” Enjolras sighed. “Hit a wall. There's classified government information I've being trying to access, but someone has been blocking my attempts.”

“Blocking your attempts.” Grantaire propped himself up on his elbows so that he could give Enjolras a puzzled frown. “Who? And  _ why? _ I don’t understand.”

“Someone at a higher level of power.” Enjolras ignored Grantaire’s perfectly-crafted ‘you’re stating the obvious’ scoff, which, honestly, Grantaire thought was a little hurtful, but he supposed that could have been the adrenaline drop talking. “The only reason I've been allowed to continue with my work is because I've made connections in congress. As for why, I don’t know, but you're a part of that agenda. You know that.”

“I’m not a part of any agenda,” Grantaire lied. “You've got to trust me. I'm here just like you, to solve this,” he continued, which was much more true.

Enjolras swung his legs off the bed, and leaned forward, fixing Grantaire with a penetrating stare. “I'm telling you this, Grantaire, because you need to know, because of what you've seen. In my research, I've worked very closely with a doctor, a psychologist. He's taken me through deep regression hypnosis. I've been able to go into my own repressed memories -- to the night my sister disappeared. I can recall a bright light outside, a presence in the room. I was paralyzed, unable to respond to my sister's calls for help.” Grantaire suppressed his skeptical huff of laughter only because Enjolras was still talking, his voice growing deeper and more intense as he continued. “Listen to me, Grantaire. This, all of this, everything I’ve been telling you about, I’ve seen it. It exists.”

“But how do you…”

Grantaire’s question was cut off by a sudden blast of generic chiptune music from Enjolras’ phone. He fumbled it out of his pocket.

“Hello? What? Who is this? Who is thi-”

He threw his phone onto the bed in disgust. “That was some woman. She just said that Peggy O’Dell is dead.”

Grantaire groaned, then rolled off the bed and onto his feet. “I need a shirt. I’ll meet you at the car.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing here, but I was encouraged, so I did this thing. This is far from being finished, but I'm in the process of writing more! And because I'm that kind of asshole fan, there will likely be more of these some day.


End file.
